


Atmospheric Pressure

by Biscay



Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8471383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscay/pseuds/Biscay
Summary: Alison helps Teresa through her fear of storms.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ukulelefoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukulelefoot/gifts).



> Inspired by various prompts from the fyhomefires tumblr page. @ukulelefoot wrote me the most gorgeous and fluffy autumnal berena fic, so here's autumnal fluff about the *other* best pairing to get you through bonfire night :)
> 
> I checked this briefly for errors/anachronisms, but some may remain; the shipping forecast was actually discontinued during both world wars but the theme of the fic was cosiness and there is literally nothing cosier, honestly :')

Each year without fail, Great Paxford experiences an uncommon number of thunderstorms between the end of summer and the creeping onset of winter. George once explained about the gulf stream, atmospheric pressure, the northwesterly coming in across the Irish Sea, but like so many things with George, the details are long forgotten.

 _'Forties, Cromarty, Forth: southwesterly veering westerly five or seven, becoming cyclonic gale eight; squally showers...'_ comes the shipping forecast over the wireless, the weather warning delivered in such sonorous monotone that Alison pays it no real notice. In evenings past, she would listen to the report with rapt attention, images of tiny merchant navy boats battered by high-crested waves playing in her mind, but tonight her focus is split between her book and the way Teresa is pressed up against her on the sofa – for warmth against the autumn cold.

Even with the radio forewarnings, each year Alison forgets about the storms. Wishful thinking, her mind still trying to cling to summer even as the flowers in her garden turn to seed and the days draw in – until rain hammers against the windows, thunder clashes, and Boris goes apoplectic.

The flash of lightning pierces even the heavy blackout curtains, and Boris is up and howling before the accompanying thunder rolls by.

“Boris!” Alison chides, loathe to leave the nest of blankets under which she and Teresa have buried themselves. The chill in the air has always managed to seep through the cracks under doors and gaps where the windows no longer quite fit in the frame, but having another person for warmth is a change to Alison's seasonal routine that is still taking some adjustment. 

Alison is so concerned with the racket Boris is making that it takes her a few moments to notice Teresa shifting uncomfortably. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Me?” Teresa asks, quite unnecessarily, “I'm fine!”

Alison accepts this, and feeds Boris the biscuit off her plate to placate him. She pours more tea - Teresa made a large pot earlier while Alison dug around the back of the wardrobe for blankets – and settles back down, but when another flash lights the air, followed almost immediately by a more violent thunderclap, Teresa's cup drops to her saucer with a clatter.

“Teresa- Boris, _please_!” 

Boris looks affronted at her tone, but Alison's concern is wholly focused on Teresa. 

“Is there anything I can do?” she offers. Teresa has done so much for her since she came to stay - honestly, more than anyone in the village could ever hope to guess - that Alison cannot pass by the opportunity to provide any kind of assistance in return. Aside from her actual house and moderate proficiency in the kitchen, Alison doesn't feel like she has much to offer, but other than selflessly volunteering to move out following certain truths coming to light, Teresa has never expressed a desire to move elsewhere, even when (if) the war eventually comes to an end.

Teresa sets her cup aside and gives Alison a simulacrum of a smile. “I think I might head up. Get an early night.”

“Goodnight,” Alison says. She feels the cold keenly as Teresa removes herself from the blankets and disappears upstairs.

* * *

The persistent rain and intermittent flashes of lightning are enough to keep Alison from falling asleep, even if concern for Teresa's well-being wasn't pressing against the forefront of her mind. She shifts restlessly for what feels like hours, too hot and too cold by turns, until the gentle creaking of someone tiptoeing downstairs makes her sit up in bed.

She waits a few minutes before pulling on her nightgown and slippers and heading downstairs herself. If she had to guess the time, it would be somewhere between 2 and 4 in the morning, and although the October half-term means that Teresa is staying up later than usual - “it's not a school night,” said with a grin, and Alison treasures the extra time together - she still needs rest. The kitchen light is on, and she pokes her head around the door to see Teresa, hair tied up in curling ribbons, stirring a pan of milk on the stove. A crack of thunder sounds, and Teresa fumbles with the spoon. 

“Let me,” Alison offers gently, taking the spoon and gesturing for Teresa to sit at the table. 

“It doesn't look like this is going to die down any time soon,” Teresa eyes the curtains cautiously, “I thought I might as well come downstairs and finish my book; I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight.”

Alison is a private person, and the relationship she has built with Teresa is firmly anchored in respecting boundaries. She feels invasive but compelled to ask, “have you always… disliked storms?” 

Teresa doesn't look at her, twisting fingers belying her embarrassment. Despite herself, Alison finds it charming, especially considering which other, much more personal secrets they've shared. She pours the steaming milk into a mug and passes it to Teresa.

“Since I was a girl,” Teresa says after a long sip, “I used to sneak into my sister's room, hide under the covers. I should have outgrown it by now-”

A flash of lightning cuts her off, as though the sky itself is offended, and silence fills the kitchen.

“Would you like to share with me tonight?” the question is out of Alison's mouth before she has a chance to think about what she's saying.

It's one thing sharing her house with Teresa. Teresa, who is- who has- they've agreed to not talk about it, but Alison is aware of it, and she knows Teresa is too.

“I couldn't do that-”

“If you think it might help?”

Teresa looks at her, thoughtful piercing eyes, and for a moment Alison is worried she'll bring _it_ up, but she gives a small, firm nod. “If you're sure you don't mind.”

* * *

Which brings Alison to now. The temperature fluctuations have ceased; the cold definitely isn't a problem with Teresa lying next to her. She's facing away, too carefully still, breathing too evenly measured. Alison is warm enough, but wants to move closer anyway. If she's invited Teresa into her bed for comfort, there's surely no need to be so anxious about proximity.

Teresa's steady breathing hitches when a flash and bang rock the house at the same time. Alison knows this means the storm is directly on top of them, and despite herself, she feels a trickle of worry. 

She inches nearer. “Are you still awake?”

Teresa doesn't respond for a few long seconds, and Alison worries if this gesture, intended to be comforting, has discomforted them both, might actually ruin things between them-

“Yes,” comes Teresa's voice. It is far too small for the brave, wonderful, righteously indignant woman who has turned Alison's life upside-down. Before nerves can get the better of her, Alison shifts even closer and draws one arm around Teresa's waist. Neither of them dare to breathe for a few long seconds, but then Teresa moves her hand and places it firmly on top of Alison's, holding it in place. Alison forces herself to relax.

The position of holding someone, especially before sleep, feels foreign to Alison. Has it really been so long since George left? She can remember being held, although she hasn't thought about it for some time, but the warmth and pressure of being cuddled up so close to Teresa feels unaccountably strange. 

The soap and shampoo they use is the same – their wartime allowances are sensibly pooled together, just like Mr and Mrs Brindsley, or Mr and Mrs Farrow, or every married couple in the village – but the distinct smell of Teresa makes her heart race. Though she's not sure exactly when, Alison has begun associating the scent with comfort, with home; it's on form-fitting cardigans as she does the laundry, it's there when Teresa reaches across her desk for a book, it lingers after every hug. Day-to-day, Alison relishes the moments when Teresa is simply close enough. After years of solitude, the sudden craving for another person is most peculiar. 

Some stray hairs, escapees from Teresa's curling ribbons, tickle Alison's face, and her heart feels like it might beat out of her chest. She fights to keep her breathing steady; the thought that Teresa is aware of her physical response just makes everything worse. Calm is impossible as Teresa's thumb gently strokes against Alison's hand, the pad grazing over the pulse point in her wrist, each furious beat giving her utterly away.

Alison waits, waits for something to happen, but just as the storm eventually wears itself out, thunder and howling winds dissolving away into bleak autumnal drizzle, Alison eventually settles and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Teresa is always the first to rise. Some days Alison doesn't get up until after she has left for school, a still-warm teapot wrapped in a cosy next to the cooker the only evidence that she has woken and gone. So Alison is surprised when she slowly wakens to a gentle panoply of birdsong and Teresa still asleep in her arms.

The clock is on her bedside table. Alison can hear the ticking but doesn't dare twist herself around far enough to see it, lest she disturb Teresa. It's practicality, after all; the half-term means Teresa doesn't have anything pressing to get up for, and the storm meant she got an awfully late night. It would be rude to disturb her, and if she's comfortable sleeping in Alison's bed – the evidence suggests very strongly that she is – then there's no reason not to stay like this. 

A scratching at the door rouses them both about an hour later. Boris, impatient for his walk, makes his presence known, and proves enough of a distraction that the awkwardness of extracting limbs, pretending to be the second one to wake, is happily avoided. Teresa doesn't say anything, but gives Alison a grateful smile before retreating back into her own room to get dressed.

* * *

“Would you like to come with us?” Alison calls upstairs, pulling on wellington boots as Boris whines through the lead in his mouth. 

“Ah, I should get on with this marking,” Teresa says apologetically, but comes to the doorway to see them off. She is dressed but yet to put on her lipstick – even when their plans for the day are no more than huddling together inside, Teresa's lipstick is a constant. “Have a good walk!”

The autumn storms are an unpleasant shock each year, but after an adjustment period, Alison easily settles into the cosiness as the year winds down into winter. The chilly mist that envelopes the Cheshire countryside in October is invigorating, with the earthy smell of mulchy leaves mixing with smoke from the Farrow's bonfires across the hills. Despite the beautiful landscape, this morning the occupation with her lodger leaves little room for anything else. If she is honest with herself, Teresa is rarely far from her mind, but she feels unsettled that something may have changed since last night. 

Alison takes a deep breath, and her long exhale is visible in the damp air. She is used to dealing with columns of figures that add up to a single rational answer, but untangling whatever it is between herself and Teresa is proving more complicated. It surely isn't significant that Teresa didn't want to join in with this walk; Teresa doesn't come on every walk during school holidays, after all, especially when she's got a lot of work to be getting on with.

Maybe this space is good for them both. 

Dark clouds begin menacing as she and Boris round a field filled with squashes and pumpkins, swollen to enormous sizes by the recent rainfall. They begin heading back towards Great Paxford, and by the time they reach the village a downpour is underway. Alison pulls up the hood of her oilskin coat and she and Boris hurry along past their neighbours, anxious to get back to the warm and dry.

The sky is so overcast by the time they round the corner to the lane up to the house that it might as well be evening. The pot-holes in the road are deceptively deep, so Alison takes care to avoid puddles, and a rush of warmth fills her when she looks up at the house and sees that the lights are on, glowing a soft orange against the dreary landscape.

“You poor things!” Teresa greets them at the door with towels freshly-warmed by the fire. As Alison divests herself of layers of waterproof and knitwear, Teresa rubs down Boris, taking care to wipe all traces of mud from his paws and claws before permitting him to curl up on his usual chair in the living room.

Still pink-cheeked and cold-nosed from the cold, Alison follows Boris' lead and nestles under the blankets still piled on the sofa. Teresa brings over a hot cup of tea and, unbidden, presses a kiss to the top of Alison's head.

Sudden nerves warm Alison more effectively than the fire and blankets combined. She wraps her hands around her teacup. “What would I do without you?”

* * *

The weather, as predicted by the man on the wireless, remains unpleasant for the rest of the day; Alison and Teresa busy themselves with their own work, accounting and lesson plans respectively, for most of the afternoon, until Boris demands attention by jumping up to the sofa. Work is abandoned in favour of belly rubs and when a crack of thunder startles all three of them, Alison untangles herself and heads to the kitchen.

“It's shepherd's pie tonight,” she says, “you can peel some potatoes for me if you like.”

Teresa follows obediently, “are you trying to domesticate me?”

Alison makes no attempt to hide her smile. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

Alison lights some candles to eat dinner by; the light in the kitchen is poor, and since the clocks went back the evenings have been drawing in by mid-afternoon. The additional light makes lightning flashes less obvious, and if Teresa has noticed the radio turned up louder than usual, she hasn't said anything. 

After dinner they settle back down in the living room in front of the fire for a few hours, and despite the inclement weather Boris eventually curls up in his bed, his nose twitching as he dreams of rabbits. Alison is beginning to doze off herself when the clock on the mantle chimes for eleven. 

Teresa stifles a yawn, “It's getting late.”

“I didn't even ask,” Alison says, marking the page in her book, “did you sleep at all last night?”

“I did; very well, thank you,” Teresa smiles gratefully and the anxiety that has been playing in the back of Alison's mind all day, concern about crossed boundaries and invasions of privacy, is utterly swept aside.

“Do you think-” she begins, “would you sleep better in with me again?”

“Alison-”

“I know I won't sleep if I'm worried about you.”

“Then how could I possibly say no?”

* * *

Teresa settles down next to her like before, on the side of the bed that Alison still thinks of as George's. It's the side nearest the door, the easiest side to get in and out of, but after Alison first received the news about George, sleeping on his half of the bed would have felt like an acceptance of his death. Twenty years later, and Alison has slowly gone through each stage of grief in turn - 'there is no right way to grieve' were Frances' sage words of support - though she's not sure exactly where in the process inviting the village schoolteacher into one's bed might fit.

Teresa seems less distressed this evening. The storm seems to be winding down, and Alison determinedly makes no mention of the reason (excuse) for their night-time arrangement, lest Teresa think there might be a motive for the offer beyond simple comfort. Teresa, for her part, is facing towards Alison tonight, her face propped on the pillow, watching Alison carefully.

Alison gently reaches across, her hand trembling slightly, surely not from cold, and traces down Teresa's cheek, fingers slowly resting against her chin. Teresa leans instinctively into the touch, and Alison feels awash with affection, familiarity, and something else unidentifiable.

It's not until Teresa leans forward, closes the tiny gap between them, and presses their lips together that things finally fall into place. 

The weight of her feelings hit her – later, Alison cringes at the metaphor – like a bolt of lightning. Like so many things with Teresa, the memory of being kissed is so distant as to feel foreign, but the changes to routine, the hugs, this kiss – it's not the fact that these things were nearly forgotten before Teresa that is surprising, it's because it's Teresa with whom she's sharing them.

Alison draws back after a few long moments. She waits for panic to set in, for the anxiety that is as constant a companion as Boris, but is greeted with unexpected calm. Teresa's breath ghosts against her lips and she cannot resist the pull, kissing her softly but with growing heat. Their bodies press together in the small bed with perfect symmetry as the winds outside wail and howl.

* * *

Alison is the first to wake again the following morning; the day dawns calm and clear but she suspects Teresa might be persuaded back into her bed tonight, with or without adverse weather. She watches Teresa slowly shift into wakefulness and feels the undercurrent of inevitability that has been present between them since Teresa's arrival. Like the changing of summer to autumn it has been subtle; fractional changes day by day, catching her unawares. Teresa regards her with a contented smile before leaning in for a long, languid kiss. Her heart beats faster, and like forces of nature beyond Alison's comprehension, she is powerless to stop it.

The way Teresa is looking at her when they eventually break apart – not so different from the way Teresa usually looks at her – suggests she feels the same way. It makes Alison think of familiar smells and lights left on; it feels like coming home.


End file.
